


Tireless

by Lassarina



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is tireless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tireless

He can see why the Empire's foot soldiers said she was made of ice, a frozen automaton capable of surpassing the human limits of endurance. Edgar hasn't made a flirtatious remark in almost four hours. He himself is limping and half-staggering under the weight of a pack that seemed quite light this morning. Even Sabin is drooping, plodding along with his head bent and his shoulders rounded. She still stands upright, shoulders drawn back and chin up, actively searching the plains in front of them for signs of monsters. The rest of them have gradually dropped back, but she maintains the same pace she had this morning.

"Celes," he says, "we should stop for the night."

She glances back at them and nods. "Here is safe enough." She sets down her pack and immediately begins clearing an area where they can build a small campfire. Locke drops his pack to the ground with a groan, rubbing his aching shoulders.

"There's a stream over there," she says absently, pointing to her left. Sabin heads over that way and crouches on the bank. Edgar is already rummaging in the packs for food, which leaves Locke the task of gathering firewood. There are enough trees and bushes for him to gather a sizeable armful of suitable wood. By the time he returns, Sabin has caught two fish, and Edgar is cleaning them amid much complaint about a king's suitability to menial chores. Celes ignores him, having learned that Edgar enjoys making himself out a martyr and that paying attention will only encourage him. Sabin either hasn't figured it out or, more likely, doesn't care, and is doing push-ups on the ground to prove that he is tougher than his brother.

By the time the food is ready, they have fallen into the silence of sheer exhaustion. Celes organizes the watches, taking the first for herself and assigning the rest of them to later watches. Locke sees her standing arrow-straight at the edge of the circle of firelight, facing out into the night.

She wakes him later for his watch, and in the firelight he can see that her face looks drawn, her skin almost translucent. There are dark shadows beneath her eyes, and the moon is higher than it should be. He tries to calculate the time, and realizes that she has taken two watches on herself.

"You shouldn't have done that," he says as he stands and dons his armour.

She turns her face away, and he notices that her shoulders are slightly rounded. "You needed the rest."

"So do you," he replies.

She strips off her armour with the efficiency of long practice and lays it neatly next to her bedroll. Her sword she sets beside it, perfectly parallel to the edge of her bedroll.

He feigns nonchalance as he makes his way over to her bedroll. She sits down slowly, stiffly, hunching forward once she is safely on the ground.

He sits beside her. When she doesn't snarl at him, he brushes her hair gently aside and massages her shoulders. There is no sound except the crackling of the campfire and the rustling sound of hands on fabric. For all her charade of energy, he can tell she is as tired and sore as the rest of them.

She turns and brushes a kiss over his cheek, light and fast, before she lies down to sleep. When she sleeps, she always starts out lying on her back, limbs straight and still, but once she falls asleep she curls onto her side like a child, hands tucked under her cheek.

He sits on the edge of her bedroll, idly stroking her hair, until it is time to wake Sabin.


End file.
